


Predict The Day

by gokkyun



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shotgunning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gokkyun/pseuds/gokkyun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo's gaze lingers on McCree for a second too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predict The Day

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored on a trainride so I began writing this to get a grasp of McHanzo :^) 
> 
> No real warnings apply, enjoy and comments/kudos/critique etc etc very much appreciated!

In his years of travel to hone his skills and forget about his home, his past and the burden of his heritage, Hanzo Shimada has returned to a lot of cities and places to his liking and to his disliking. The city his feet have carried him to this time around is Santa Fe. He has come here several times already, most of them for a sole reason. A reason he would love to deny to himself but unfortunately it's not all that easy. It never is. 

The hour is late and although few people are still out on the dimly lit streets, Hanzo earns multiple glances of different nature, like he does in nearly every city he passes through. It's understandable considering his clothes and what they show, the weapon on his back and maybe some look at him because of his nationality. Trying not to let the glances faze him, Hanzo places his fingers defensively on his bow's string, which he carries on his back. 

His steps, swift and light even now, carry him to his destination fast, an establishment he didn't think he would ever visit, multiple times and voluntarily so no less. A deep sigh aimed at none other than himself leaves Hanzo before he knocks on the unsuspicious looking door. It opens moments later and a scruffy-looking man steps in front of it, dressed in black and at least two heads larger than Hanzo. Not that he would care about such things. “Now, what the fuck do you want?”

Hanzo's expression stays stern and unimpressed, his mouth closed, refusing to answer the man's rudeness with words. Instead he pulls out a small card from one of the pouches around his hip and presents it to the man. “Oh, you're that guy Jesse's talked about. What was your name again? Handsoap-something?” 

Breathing in and out through his nose, Hanzo simply frowns but doesn't bother to grant the man a response yet again. That fool is truly testing his patience though. “Not the talkative type I see. Or maybe your English sucks. Whatever, follow me.”

The two men of very different height and nature enter the house together and the distinct smell of alcohol and smoke immediately tingle Hanzo's sensitive nose. Resisting the urge to scoff, he follows the tall man further into the familiar house which is actually a bar – or a saloon as McCree would always joke – for outlaws and mercenaries. Not necessarily the murderous kind but the kind that can't step into a regular bar without having about ten bounty hunters on their ass. 

“Jesse'll be right with,” the man says as Hanzo and he have crossed the loud and crowded main room, halting at a secluded and quiet desk that offers four chairs to sit down. “He's busy on the stage right now.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo finally says and nods with soft approval at the man who shrugs and leaves him. Before sitting down onto one of the chairs, Hanzo carefully places his bow onto the one right of him. His eyes then travel to the small makeshift stage of the bar, a stool placed there with Jesse McCree sitting on it, in all his glory. A couple of people in the busy crowd pay attention to him as he plays a lazy but serene tune on the guitar. 

A soft smile plays around Hanzo's lips as he watches McCree's fingers closely, how they gently pull the strings of the instrument and smoothly change the chords. The cowboy's eyes are closed while his boots tap along the song's mellow rhythm on the wooden floor, burnt-down cigar dropping ash from the corner of his mouth while the stage's dull light casts a soft glow on his face. It's an oddly calming feeling to simply watch McCree and the motion of his hands, to listen to the tune he's playing and as much as Hanzo enjoys it, he doesn't mind as McCree opens his eyes and spots him in the crowd. The younger man plays a few more notes before leaving the stage with obvious haste, a couple of people applauding him while the others mind their own business – some of them too drunk to function properly anymore anyways.

With a wide grin on his features McCree walks over to where Hanzo is sitting at, putting his hat and guitar on one of the free chairs before sitting down left of Hanzo. He waves at the bartender and shows a single finger before turning his unshared attention to Hanzo, resting his elbow on the desk and his face on his hands. “Howdy there, darlin'.”

“G-Greetings.” 

They fall quiet after that, Hanzo looking away from McCree and onto the stage yet again. A couple of musicians are setting up there and while he tries to keep his attention on them, he watches from the side of his eyes how McCree takes off the glove from his flesh-and-bone hand. The other man then slides it over to Hanzo, placing it on his tattooed shoulder before tracing it down his arm and the dragon imprinted there, finally reaching Hanzo's hand. McCree runs his fingertips across Hanzo's then, the touch teasing before fingers intertwine. 

The band starts playing music and Hanzo's tongue wets his suddenly far too dry lips, McCree's subtle gesture catching him off guard although it's always the other man who does the first step when they see each other again. Hanzo admits defeat to the almost sickly sweet gesture of them holding hands by letting his free hand rub over his forehead while finally meeting McCree's lingering gaze with his own. “I … I have … missed you.”

“Missed ya too, babe. Been worryin' where ya snuck off to after last time,” McCree says and averts his gaze for a second, giving the waitress a swift smile as she settles down a glass of beer on the desk. 

Hanzo gives McCree a soft scowl in the meantime, “I told you I was off to Hanamura to honor my brother's day of death. And even if I failed to tell you where I was going, it should not bother you. You worry too much.”

“Can't help worryin' with somethin' this good,” the cowboy replies, a lopsided smirk gracing his lips as his prosthetic hand settles on the glass and leads it to his mouth, taking a rather big sip. Hanzo rolls his eyes but there's softness in them and around the corners of his mouth, the usual flat line curled up, a soft flush visible even in the bar's twilight. “How'd it go?”

McCree takes his hand away from Hanzo's now and the older man feels oddly itchy without the comforting touch. He observes as McCree puts out his cigar in the desk's ashtray just to immediately light up a new one, eyes never leaving Hanzo as he does. “Good,” is Hanzo's simple reply and in the back of his head he hopes that he's a better liar than he was as a child, his father seeing right through him every time a lie slipped from his foolish mouth. Truth be told, Hanzo is never well after the day of his brother's supposed death, memories of his younger brother and the day Hanzo carried out the duty that ultimately broke his heart resurfacing. The fact that Genji returned as – something that Hanzo is still unable to accept as his brother doesn't help much either. 

But that's not something he likes to tell people, not even Jesse McCree. The two of them have gotten to know each other well in the past two years and while Hanzo appreciates the other's company more than he thought he would ever do, he's still not very fond of sharing his most guarded thoughts and emotions with him.

Displaying or voicing his genuine affection for McCree was hard enough already, something Hanzo still doesn't quite manage to do without feeling out of place. And how would he know to do things like these that seem so natural for others? His father and other clan members were too busy to bind him into the family empire he was supposed to rule than to show him love, going so far as to discourage him from showing any kind of affection or emotion save for a potential arranged marriage. 

But Hanzo didn't mind his elder's guiding hands, as rough and cold as they might have been. To his shame it wasn't always this way, though. He gets reminded of that fact as he watches the cigar in the corner of McCree's mouth with blank eyes and an absent mind. “Ya sure you good over there?” McCree suddenly says as his human hand reaches out, brushing Hanzo's thick hair strand out of his face before gently cupping his cheek. “You look like yer 'bout to cry.” The younger's thumb then gingerly brushes over Hanzo's right lower eyelid. “Hell, ya already are.”

Hanzo is unsure whether the touch or the words make him flinch away. “You are mistaken,” he replies, his voice too fast and too shaky. 

McCree tilts his head to the side and takes his hand back to himself, pulling a face. “Honey, I'm no damn expert with these things but you've been starin' at my cigar with a face like yer puppy just got kicked. Don't seem to me like you're all that well.” 

With a frown, Hanzo turns his gaze away. “It is nothing.” 

And to Hanzo's surprise, McCree doesn't insist like he usually does when they have these disputes. Insists because he is stubborn and nosy and caring in his very own way, a way Hanzo secretly admires, a way that Hanzo loves because it shows him that there is a person that actually cares for his well-being, for his problems. But this time McCree simply scoffs and turns away with a muttered “Fine, have it your way.” 

Silence falls over them once more and this time it's not pleasant and calming like it is when they trade fading glances full of affection or lay in bed for hours, touchy and uncaring for the rest of the world. It's a silence that is crushing and that judges Hanzo for still not trusting Jesse McCree the way he trusts him. And maybe climbing over the wall he's built up in front of his emotions is tougher than he thinks. Clearing his throat, Hanzo places his hand back on McCree's. “Jes,” he murmurs and the younger man gives him a sideway glance. “You are correct. There is something.”

The struggle in McCree to remain reserved and butt-sore is visible on his face, mouth flat and eyebrows pressed together. He turns his body and attention back to Hanzo, though. “Tell me.” 

“Your cigar,” Hanzo begins and tries to keep his voice stern and even but it proves to be harder than he thought it would be, never before having talked about his brother to someone. Even to someone who might know him better than he does himself by now. Nevertheless, the words that follow come out quiet and uneasy. “it reminded me of my younger brother. Or rather, how he managed to influence me more than I managed to influence him, even though it was my duty.”

“How's that?” 

Hanzo softly chews on the inside of his cheeks for a second there, contemplating. He understands that McCree knows a lot about the Shimada family by now, from both Hanzo and his time in Overwatch together with whatever Genji may have become now. And yet talking about his family like he is about to bothers Hanzo, when he knows it shouldn't. At least not to McCree. “Father and the elders put me under a lot of pressure. I am the older brother, therefore the heirtaker, so it is understandable. It is an honor and while I understand that the older I became, there were days where I did not understand,” Hanzo says, trying to fill his words with honest pride but instead he feels like he hesitates after every word, even lets out a deep sigh. “And I could not help that after some days I was – too exhausted, maybe even too anxious to carry on with my training, my duties, my -. I was unsure if what I did was enough to please my father. It probably was not.”

“Calm down, darlin',” McCree suddenly murmurs softly from Hanzo's side who feels how the younger man's hand tightens around his own hand. It's shaking slightly, Hanzo unable to control it and he feels like all eyes are suddenly on him, feels like the people here are about to mock him for his weakness when, in fact, no one is even bothering to look at them. “It's fine, no one's judgin' you or anythin'. 'N if they do, I'll shoot 'em in the ass. Easy as that.”

As idiotic and unnecessary as that might be, it brings a fleeting smile around Hanzo's lips, his shaking hand and drumming heart calming down. “These days – my brother would know them. I am to this day unsure if he knew them by simply looking at my face or if he sensed them. Whatever it was, he came to my room late at night and dragged me into our garden, where no one would see or hear us and – gave me a cigarette. He lit it and one for himself and would tell me with a wide grin on his face that I saw so rarely anymore how he got them, even stole them sometimes. He told me more and more stupid stories as the night went on and I simply listened.” 

“Did it help?” McCree asks and places his prosthetic hand on Hanzo's cheeks, something he rarely does because he wants to feel skin on skin. It shows Hanzo just how troubled and anxious his face must look. He tries to relax, the cold thumb that carefully caresses over his cheek certainly helping. 

He opens his mouth to answer but stays silent. Scared to speak, scared that he will sound broken. So instead, he simply nods. 

“Does it still help?”

“I – have not tried it since – since – since,” Hanzo breaks off his own words. 

“Guess we'll hafta give it a shot then, eh?”

McCree takes his blood-and-flesh hand away from Hanzo's and puts two fingers on the cigar that is seemingly ever present in the corner of his mouth. He takes a long drag from it but holds in the smoke as he presses the cigar's butt carelessly into the ashtray. With blinking eyes and little to no understanding for what McCree is planning, Hanzo shivers as not one but both of McCree's hands are cupping his face. 

The cowboy's warm thumb is on Hanzo's full lower lip then, pushing it down with gentle force so the warrior's mouth is open. Lips press against lips and Hanzo's eyes flutter close as a shiver overtakes his body, the feeling the kiss holds within familiar albeit different, the penetrating smell of smoke now more present than ever. A soft noise leaves through Hanzo's nose as he takes in the smoke ascending from the other man's mouth and he can't help but to grab the ridiculous poncho that rests around McCree's shoulders with both hands, suddenly needing something to hold onto. It's McCree who pulls back a mere second later, just enough so their eyes can open back up, their gazes meeting. “Exhale,” the cowboy breathes against Hanzo's lips. 

And Hanzo complies, a thick cloud of smoke escape his mouth and he shudders, unsure if it's the intoxicating taste or the way McCree's slightly clouded eyes are focused solely on Hanzo's lips, the younger man licking his own lips. “Any good?” McCree asks, voice a hoarse slur. 

Their faces are still only inches apart and Hanzo has trouble containing his urge to crush his lips back against McCree's, the harsh mixture of beer and smoke escaping the other's mouth oddly alluring. “Yes,” Hanzo answers. “but it was not the smoking that helped I think. Not with you nor my brother. What I craved now – and back then even more so – was human contact, contact that did not consist of speeches or lectures. Foolish as it may be.”

“It ain't foolish. And I'm happy to provide ya with some more of that contact,” McCree says with a sly grin that changes into a questioning gaze fast. “Why did my smokin' never remind ya of this before, though?”

Hanzo pulls his face away a slight bit, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “I am usually gone for more than a month before returning to you after my brother's day of death, cleansing my troubled mind. I immediately returned this time around.”

“How's that?”

"Do not make me say I have missed you twice on the same day.”


End file.
